


What Once Was Dark, What Once Was Light

by convolutedConcussion



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Angst, Author Cannot Help How Much She Loves Angst, Comfort, F/F, Reconciliations, the one that got away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-18
Updated: 2011-09-18
Packaged: 2017-10-23 20:38:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years after Kanaya leaves, she's got something to say to Rose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Once Was Dark, What Once Was Light

"Hello, Rose..."

A voice, cool and eerily calm. A voice that, though aged, has not lost its silken, soothing edge.

"It has been a long time, dear friend. I'll be in town in three days. We have much to discuss. I beg that you would do me the honour and give me the pleasure of your company."

\---

Your name is Rose Lalonde and you are twenty-five. Your name is Rose Lalonde and this morning you received the most peculiar of phone calls that has--though you would never admit it--still got your hands trembling. The conversation keeps replaying in your head like haunting carousel music. You haven't seen or heard from Kanaya Maryam in ten years--ten _damnable_ years--and yet not five minutes ago her voice had uncoiled in your ear and laid its eggs deep in your brain. You feel their larval effects wriggling through your mind, unearthing your darkest, most well-repressed memories and bringing them for a nice airing at the surface of your thoughts.

A deep, dull ache--a familiar old pain--overtakes you. It is something you can only describe as a full-body throb, making every bit of you hurt. Sighing, you cross your arms in front of your chest. You had been getting ready for work, hadn't you? You lean against the wall where your phone--it isn't a cordless and it's the colour of the meat of an avocado, like your stove and refrigerator, something that has never failed to bring pages upon pages of praise from your ectosibling--hangs. You allow yourself a few moments' reprieve as wave after wave of small, seemingly insignificant memories-- _the brush of a white claw that was once black against a black cheek that was once white; onyx lips curved in an understanding smile; the words "my friend"_ \--crash over you. Your throat constricts and you grab your phone, unwilling to cry.

John's half-asleep when he picks up the phone, you can hear it in his voice. No wonder about that, you've woken up ridiculously early every morning since the game. You look at the clock. Five forty-five. Shit. Now you feel silly.

He has to ask you three times what's wrong before you say, "John, I'm sorry it's so early. I just... Kanaya called me." You leave that hanging there in the dead air between your phones and if your voice was strained, the boy--man, you correct yourself--was polite enough not to say anything.  
You hear scuffling and groaning and shooshing and then he finally replies, "Do you want me to come over?" You know that he's already on his way out the door and you can barely whisper that you do want him, you need him, to come over.

\---

When John opens the door to your apartment, he finds you sitting on your couch, holding your head as if it were something very fragile, and with a nearly burnt-out cigarette in your ashtray. He folds you into a warm, brotherly hug and doesn't let go until you push at his shoulder just a little. He doesn't, however, draw back too far and instead sits back so he can gather you up into his arms and you let him because even as an adult this strange creature was special. One couldn't refuse John a thing that he really wanted, he would just keep pressing with gift baskets full of unicorns and puppies and sunshine and baby rabbits until he got what he desired. It amazes you every time it happens that his disposition had never turned to selfishness or evilness or...

You sigh. You really aren't one for extended physical contact and you tell yourself that you'll get up in a minute.

\---

Three days.

Three days of worrying. These days pass far too quickly for your liking. You come to dread Wednesday afternoon, where you would meet her in a small cafe a block or two from your apartment. You come to detest the mention of the day or time, the way your friends carefully don't mention it, the way your heart beats a little faster whenever you think about it (which really hasn't been much less than "incessantly"). A little shame-facedly, you buy a new dress for the occasion. It was cut in a style that reminded you of her and it wasn't so very expensive. It's lavender and black and fits you well enough, you suppose. You bounce between "This is incredibly stupid why should I care what I look like" to "What if she thinks I've gotten too skinny? too pale? too bluh bluh bluh" once or twice an hour until finally Wednesday afternoon is there upon you and you're sitting in a booth in the back and your tapping one toe waiting and--

And there she is.

You think an "Oh, _God_ " escapes you as you stand, waving her gently to your table. She's tall--taller. She's more beautiful than you remember her. Her flesh is still glowing white, her lips still so very black. Her eyes are now liquid jade that bore into you unabashedly and unjudgementally. Her horns are...bigger, you think, sharper at least, perhaps thicker _(do horns grow with time? hm, wonder what Tavros would look like now if they do)_ at the base, and her hair is a big longer, though fashionably (and daringly) cut. She's wearing a gray pantsuit that's tight in just the right places-- _head in the game, Lalonde_ \--with royal purple suspenders and a matching tie. You wonder idly where the jacket to such an ensemble was and then she's closeclose _close_ and she's taking your proffered hand and kissing you first on one cheek, then on the other, causing your pale skin to burn and a shiver to run through you.

"Hello, Kanaya," you say, voice shaking only a little.

She sits across from you at the small table and smiles very, very softly. "Hello, Rose."

They neither of them say anything until the server comes to their table and sets down two mugs full to the brim of steaming black coffee. The troll looks surprised, her lips parted in a slight O as she looks at you. You feel compelled to say, "I remembered how you liked your coffee. That was--that was years ago, we can send it back." After a moment, you smile a little and add, "Tastes _do_ change, after all."

"No," Kanaya says, her lips curving once more as she dipped her head, looking down at her mug. "No, my tastes, in this area, have not changed." When her eyes come back up, she brings it to her lips and takes a sip, studying you minutely. After considering you for what feels like ages, she sets her coffee down and her eyes finally shift. "You look well."

You are momentarily perplexed before you look at your pale hands. Your nails will always be black, but that will, hopefully, be all that remains physically of your brief-- _not brief enough_ \--dabble in Grimdarkness.

\---

You're so hot and full. You want to vomit. Why do they think you're so cold? Why are these blankets so tight and why are those arms so tight and who is that and--

"My friend," she says. Her voice is heavy with disappointment and a heartwrenching sadness that you don't know how to appreciate yet. For now, your heart beats indignantly. It's working hard and it feels as if your blood is thick. Her fingers are scorching on your sweat-slick forehead. "Look at what you have done now." For the first time, it feels like a real reproach.

 _That's not fair,_ you think. _I'm only a kid._

You open your eyes and they feel sticky, gritty. Through the haze you see her. You see her in features. Sharp teeth. Sharp eyes. Glowing, hurting your eyes. She stops stroking your head. She adds another blanket.

"Hot," you croak, struggling to speak English.

"Hush," she snaps. "You are freezing, Rose."

You don't see the tears in her eyes, then. You aren't looking. You close your eyes again, fidgeting under the covers, the whisperings of the Horrorterrors harsh in your ears.

\---

"Yes, well, the occult explorations and eventual failings of one's youth must fall away if one wants to grow into a productive sentient being," you reply without your usual sharpness. For a while, you avoid her gaze.

"Rose..." she whispers.

"Do you still design clothes?" you ask quickly, eyes darting up to meet hers.

Her cheeks flush green. "Yes. It--what is that phrase?--pays the bills."

Your brows quirk upwards quickly and a comment about how "pays the bills" was truly a complicated phrase to commit to memory plays on your tongue but it is with a pang that you swallow it down. When you had known her, Kanaya had not yet learned to be laughed at. Besides, now could hardly be a moment apropos for such conduct. From what the troll had said on the phone, you had come to expect that this was to be a day of conversation. Serious conversation. Instead, you say, "I have a strange feeling it does considerably more than that." Your tone is fond, perhaps too fond, because she looks at you oddly for a moment.

"Rose," she says a bit more firmly. "Please, be serious. I did come for a reason." She pauses and you wait because suddenly it's as if your tongue is cemented by too-thick blood to the roof of your mouth all over again. "I need you to know that I'm sorry."

"Why?" you ask immediately.

She sighs and purses her lips.

\---

When you awaken again, you don't know if it's been days, hours, weeks since you last closed your eyes. Your gaze is cast about like the desperate--and inexperienced--rod of a fisherman when you realize your bedside is not being kept by a certain troll. A small, sick, gurgling noise of discontent erupts from your lips. Your eyes must have, at some point, fallen closed. A hand pushes your bangs back but it's not the hand you want. Its fingers are thicker, calloused. Your lids slide open slowly and you catch the bright blue gaze of one John Egbert. He gives you a reluctant smile.

"Nice to see ya, Rose!" He exclaims. "How do you feel?"

You take a moment to process such a question. Your blood still feels as if it's too viscous for your body, you still feel hot, you still ache. But the voices in your head, though still with the intent of staying for a very, very long time, have retreated some and you can concentrate on more than their incessant desire for pain and blood and gnashing teeth. "M'fine," you whisper. English is easier, too. You try to say more--to ask more--but your throat is dry. John lifts your head gingerly (if a little hesitantly) to bring water to your lips. You sigh your thanks. "Kanaya," you breathe, "Here?"

You will later learn to hate yourself for your lack of eloquence, among other things.

John's smile fades. "N-no. Not, um, exactly?"

You frown. You're too tired to ask further. When he urges that you to get more rest, that all could be talked over when you're well, you acquiesce with little more prompting.

It's not until your skin is less black, until your sentences can be spoken fully with few breaks for breaths, that John tells you that Kanaya left. He hands you a letter with your name written in a hand that was all too familiar on it.

\---

In many ways, for many reasons, you suppose you could say for the sake of argument that Sburb ended as well as anyone could have expected. You get your universe. You get your planet. Your already-formed, already-populated-by-humans-and-trolls-alike planet. But you don't get the dead back. You don't get the dead back and you even lose the dream bubbles. Of course, this means that the Horrorterrors lose most of their hold on you, but the recovery from Grimdarkness is long and arduous and almost not worth it. You slip too many times to count and it's only now, years later, that you realize how flippant your attitude to such a matter really had been.

At the time, you rather knew it to be right to lift yourself from the shadows than felt it to be so.

\---

You open the letter slowly with feeble gray hands shaking. It starts with "Dearest Friend" and ends with an assertion that Kanaya simply can't be your anchor anymore if you refuse to help yourself. You cry tears the consistancy of mud and clutch the letter to your chest for what must be hours-- _or days or weeks or what does it even matter what time is anymore?_ \--at words that were neither bitter nor loving nor regretful. John, not knowing what to do, not good with crying flighty broads, puts a hand on your shoulder.

Later, he helps you to the bathroom to shower. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and for a moment you are stunned. You look... truly ghastly. Your flesh looks like you are covered in a thick layer of ash, your lips are cracked, and your tears make your face look as if someone poured used motor oil down your cheeks. You've lost a lot of weight. Your eyes are ringed with the circles of insomnia even though you've been sleeping more than anything else for what felt like an eternity. On uncertain legs do you proceed to the shower. It takes a considerable amount of strength to turn the nob and, once you do get under the jet of hot water, you begin to think that perhaps a bath would have been a better idea.

\---

"You know why I am apologizing, Rose," she finally says, her voice pained.

Your own voice is cold when you reply, "My friend, you couldn't be more mistaken."

"I abandoned you."

You feel your throat clench painfully and your eyes start to burn. For a long moment, you look at anything but her face. "You left," you state with a shrug. "We were kids."

When you lift your gaze, her eyes are narrowed. "There is something you are not saying," she observes, taking another sip. "I have no right to demand that you share your innermost thoughts with me, but I would appreciate... I would very much regret leaving here without..."

"Without me throwing a fit, Kanaya?" You sigh, leaning forward. "You owe me nothing. I wasn't your responsibility. It was wrong of me to ever assume that I was. I've come to terms with it. What I don't understand is your coming here."

"I do owe you something, though," she says emphatically. "An explanation."

"I don't think that--" you start. Her sharp look cuts you off and you bite down on your lip. You lace your fingers before your mouth and whisper, "As you wish."

Look softening, Kanaya starts, "I am thoroughly ashamed of myself. It was not just you that I left, you know. It was everyone. My friends, the closest beings to me." She pauses. Her voice is so sad you almost want to touch her. "It was inexcusable for me to blame you in my letter for my own cowardice, Rose. It was not your fault I found myself inadequate to the pressures I assumed myself. As you said, though, we were... young. At the time, I saw you as willingly sacrificing yourself to such force over and over again. I thought myself equal to impartiality, and thus unbiased, but I believe now that I had still been quite bitter that you had not taken my advice regarding your behaviour in the game."

She stops. You think you know why. Neither you nor the rest of the surviving players of Sburb (or Sgrub) ever mention the game. Ever. It was over, wasn't it? Why talk about it? You, even with your leaning towards psychoanalysis in those days and now your formal training in psychiatry, never delve into the experiences you all faced. For an instant, you think you hear something in the very back of your mind, the whisperings of some eldritch tongue, but then that instant is gone and you're left with goosebumps.

"Everyone always depended on me so much. To fix their problems, to do whatever they needed me to, no matter how gruesome--"

Again, she stops. This time there is a quiver to her lower lip. "It wasn't fair, Kanaya," you pipe, hand sliding forward so that your fingers barely brush hers. "You really don't have to--"

"You depended on me," she says flatly.

You allow yourself one hard smile. "I was a selfish, angry girl and you had enough on your plate. I was angry, I was. I must have destroyed an entire wing of the house. But you owed me nothing then and owe me nothing now."

 _"Would you stop saying that?"_ she hisses, frowning. "You were... my best friend. You were the only one I really and truly regarded and simultaneously pitied. When you were lucid enough to talk, to read, knit, to be active, you were the only companion I ever kept. And when you were not lucid, you were the only companion I wanted." The troll casts her eyes about, reminding you that the two of you are in a public place. "It was selfish to leave because I did not want to watch you destroy yourself. I liked you too well for that. I ran away." She dabs a handkerchief at the corners of her eyes where tears are beginning to form. Her voice is barely audible when she says, "I am sorry. A decade is really too long to wait for something like this."

It isn't until she hands you the handkerchief that you realize you're also rather tearful. Not crying, tearful. "Why now?"

"I was hoping--and if this is impossible I would of course not blame you at all--but I did have the greatest hope of... of your forgiveness?" You're about to tell her that it had been granted but she says in a rush, "And maybe you would not be so against the idea of the two of us--well, that is to say--I mean--perhaps we could try to--to be friends?"

You want to say that friendship is impossible. That after ten years you two would surely be too different to find common ground with the exception of a past they couldn't talk about. You want to walk out on _her_ this time. However, when you open your mouth, you say, "Well, there's an idea." Standing slowly, you drop a ten on the table and watch Kanaya watch you. "Come, I'll show you my new apartment."

Your name is Rose Lalonde and you are twenty-five. You're not sure if this is going to end well, but it's a start.


End file.
